For some reason, I kept thinking of this poem by Emily Dickinson that Mother loved:
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
As I worked on the pillow and decided to do a line form the poem on the back, I knew this little pillow was going to mean a lot to me. And it does carry a lot of meaning...it reminds me of Mother.